Lost
by Tiger Rhodes
Summary: Draco/Harry slash. A spin on the classic Romeo and Juliet, featuring two very different star crossed lovers. The final chapter is now up. Yeah, that means this is COMPLETED. Angsty, Angsty, Angsty. Dont say you werent warned
1. Default Chapter

"You really shouldn't do that," Harry whispered, without an ounce of actual conviction in his voice. He lay backwards across one of the many benches in the library, pretending to be staring up at the ceiling, which currently held a projection of all of the rooms rules. It was supposed to shift, the rumor was, varying between different works of poetry, interesting spells, a reference sheet, whatever was reflected from the emotions of the people in the room... but their current librarian was so strict it always seemed to be a frozen reminder of when they were doing something wrong. In all actuality he was looking fully with his peripheral vision at the time, watching with something very near admiration as Draco paced around the library, casually stepping around benches and shelves as he went.  
  
Harry knew the risk had been insane, completely over the top, of bringing Draco here. Revealing his invisibility cloak to him, using the stolen password to get in the Slytherin common, and dodging Filch and his cat all the way here. But he'd had to do something, he was going to explode if he didn't. At school, whenever Ron and Hermione weren't with him- an utterly rare occurrence in itself- Crabbe and Goyle were flanking the silver blonde boy like his personal butlers. And the summer... that was a joke. Uncle Vernon would probably pop every blood vessel in his brain if Harry ever asked to have somebody from Hogwarts stay at his school over night, and Harry doubted he would live more than five minutes in Malfoy Manor.  
  
"Why not?" Draco asked calmly, the laugh in his voice betraying the fact that he knew exactly why not. George and Fred had tipped Harry onto the fact that almost all of the items in the library, benches excluded, had been charmed so that they sent an alarm immediately to the librarian if they were ever touched, and Harry had passed that message along quite frequently to Draco on the way their. He almost cringed clean out of his robes as Draco took a gentle leap overtop a stool, balanced on his heels, and spun easily between two shelves that couldn't have been more than two feet apart from each other. He stopped upon asking the question, and looked back with a smile.  
  
Harry sighed. This was a mistake. Having some time alone with Draco was not worth being expelled, especially considering they had never actually spoken a word to each other about, well, the two of them. Quick hand holds and some amazingly suggestive glances were all they'd managed to pull off ever since Draco had pulled him aside in the hall ten minutes before a Quidditch game. Harry had won that game, but barely, as he kept having to pull up the collar of his robe in a vain attempt to hide the darkening mark he knew had been lain right across his jugular. And under his one ear.  
  
For a moment he closed his eyes, wondering what the hell he had been thinking. When he opened them, Draco was no where to be found. He paused, leaning sideways on the bench to try to look around the two shelves Draco had just passed. "Draco?" he asked as loudly as he felt comfortable doing, which wasn't very loud at all. No answer. Tentavilely he rose to his feet, walking forward, attempting to glance in every direction at once. "Come on," he said, growing angry, "I don't think this is funny."  
  
In a flash he felt a quick breath in his ear, a light and cool burst of air, obviously deliberate. He spun around quickly, expecting to see Draco there, arms crossed and smiling in self satisfaction. Instead there was only open air, and Harry actually resigned himself to looking straight up, as if Draco had gained the ability to fly somehow.  
  
Then it happened again, in his other ear this time, and he spun again. Still nothing. Suddenly his eyes darted to the arm of one of the benches, looking for the familiar shimmery material to be hanging there. It was gone. Draco had his invisibility cloak.  
  
Suddenly a pair of strong arms wrapped around his from behind, looping over his shoulders and pulling tight, completely binding him in to himself. He stretched, trying to slip out of the grip, and realized how strong Quidditch practice must have made Draco. He couldn't move an inch. Or maybe he didn't want to. A pair of poker hot lips pressed down against the nape of his neck, and his struggling outward suddenly shifted into a slow rising up, pressing his neck to meet the downward rhythm of Draco's lips. He tilted his head backwards and felt his cheek press against one that he couldn't see, and he knew he was supposed to be feeling some kind of feather light material, his invisibility cloak, but he couldn't at all. Just warm, pale flesh, pressed against his flushed face.  
  
He felt long, slender finger tips play upon his waist and travel up, sliding easily into his robes and rubbing across his otherwise bare chest. It felt like four knife blades were tracing his skin, just lightly enough not to slice him open and spill his lifeblood on the floor at his feet. He felt a moan come, unasked for, from deep in his chest, but it was muffled as he was spun around and the lips that had been pampering shoulder now graced his own with their presence.  
  
Up on the ceiling, the projection shimmered. A Muggle volume of text appeared, fletched in the background with a kind of pulsing red. Harry barely had time to read the title before Draco braced the back of his head with his hand and pulled his eyes downward... Romeo and Juliet. 


	2. Face Off

"You want to what?"  
  
Harry's eyes were set hard, as stony as they had ever been. Nothing but the odd tone of that question had set him off, but it was a pre-emptory measure. He knew asking to move, and the conversation that followed, would probably be one of the most insultive and degrading processes of his life. Uncle Vernon gloating, cackling at the fact that Harry thought they might say no- he didn't, at all, but he was trying to do this properly- and then most likely gathering together the rest of the family, who would then repeat the process. 'Happy as a pig in shit', was the expression, he believed, and it certainly seemed to fit them all, especially Dudley. Dudley was even rounder than he used to be, as Harry's tireless workouts over the last two years had made it impossible for his cousin to push him around, he seemed to simply be trying to get big enough to roll over him, like a boulder.  
  
He could see the collective eight chins between the three of them bouncing as they chuckled, and he didn't see why, but it made him see red around the corners, and he literally felt a wave of nausea as he pictured this. He hated Pivet Drive, but it was home, if nothing else, and the fact that the people he shared it with actually went out of their way to show him exactly how unwelcome he was could only be described as unbelievably depressing. "I want to move out," he said simply, "me and a... a, uh, friend of mine, were going to get a flat together, and split the rent."  
  
Uncle Vernon's beady eyes seemed to glitter strangely as he looked Harry over, and then he crossed his arms over his beefy chest, forcing an amazingly smug look onto his face. "You really expect me to buy this?" he snarled. "I'm not as stupid as the people you are accustomed to, I can guarantee you that. So you found out about the money, and you want to take it for yourself, filling some two bit apartment with a bunch of useless items you want to purchase."  
  
Harry's eyes clouded. He could only think of one thing that that meant... but... no... someone would have told him. He was sure of that. But he wasn't sure of it at all, and his voice caught in his throat as he asked. "Money?"  
  
With a snort, Uncle Vernon glared at him. "Don't play the fool with me, boy!" he roared, his voice rebounding around the room in a tone Harry only remembered hearing him use when he was practically drowning in greed. "You know that the freak people you came from have been sending weekly payment's to ensure your care... and its a good thing to, or you would have been off in the orphanage before you could wave your silly stick. 'Money to make his life better with' indeed... your lucky we used the part of it we did to keep you clothed and fed, we certainly didn't need to go to the expenses we did."  
  
"Expenses!" Harry cried, and he couldn't believe how shrill his own voice sounded. "Expenses!? You mean the hand me downs I got from Dudley, so big I practically walked right out of them? The bed sheets with holes? The spare closet space you had in the house? You call those expenses!? All this time... you've been holding the few things you've bought be over my head, as a colossal debt I owe you. And now I find out that you've been making a profit off of me this entire time??"  
  
"Silence!" Uncle Vernon thundered, "I will not be spoken to like in my own house!"  
  
Harry took a step forward. Uncle Vernon tensed up, relaxed a second, and Harry took two more. He was now eye to eye to his Uncle, or at least as close as he could get from the three inches the man had on him. He didn't speak for several moments, but when he did, his voice was barely above a whisper. "Then how about this..." he hissed, and he noticed with an empty feeling that his Uncle's eyes were wide with something looked very much like fear. "Fuck you."  
  
Fearful or not, Uncle Vernon could snap like any other man. It felt like a granite block had cracked him directly across the temple, and Harry fell down to one knee, clutching his head an inch in front of his ear. In front of him his uncle stood, meaty arm and hammy fist extended, face red, breath pumping in and out of his nostrils like past the nose ring they put on bulls out in the country. "I WILL NOT TOLERATE-" he screamed, charging forward, lifting his arm even higher above his head, "YOUR IGNORANCE ANY LONG-"  
  
There are very few spells that can be performed without the aid of a wand. Most of them were incredibly difficult, that took years to learn, and still required the focusing of some other body part or object to work correctly. But then there were some, the first spells of the wizarding words, that manifested themselves simply on emotion. Fear could give you protection, a shield, a bubble, wings... and anger could give you a weapon. Harry didn't even move, but he felt the power rush out from him, felt it burning from behind his eyes before lashing out every pore in his body and slamming into Uncle Vernon, sending the aging man flying backwards into the fireplace. It wasn't lit, but it was solid brick, and his Uncle slammed into it with a sickening thud and slid to the ground, a trickle of blood dripping its way down from beneath his matted hair.  
  
Harry stared in horror at what he had done, but a large part of him was rejoicing. There! It screamed. It serves you right, you arrogant egotistical bastard. I'm more than you! I'm better, and I always have been!  
  
"Dad!"  
  
The triumphant scream in Harry's head was choked down as if by red hot fingers closing on his mental throat. Dudley stood in the doorway, brought from his room by the noise, and was staring in terror at his father. He went to move to him, but saw Harry, blocking the path. Though his adopted cousin made no move against him, Dudley took one look at Harry and began to back up nervously, eyes darting around the room. His eyes fell upon a poker lying near his feet, having rolled towards him, sent sprawling by Uncle Vernon's fall into the rack it had been hanging on. But Harry saw it to, and his hate filled eyes narrowed. "Oink" he said simply, rising fully to his feet. In a split second, Dudley decided to leave his father to fate, and charged back up the stairs, causing an ungodly commotion in the process.  
  
Harry didn't waste any time. He wouldn't be surprise if Dudley would call the police, bringing them there with some crackpot story of a scarred invader with a gun who'd attacked his father and was stealing his mother's jewelry. He grabbed his trunk, tossed everything that mattered to him inside, and then let Hedgwig out of her cage. He would have to leave the cage behind, and she could fly free behind him if she wished. He hauled the trunk up, not even considering using a weight reduction spell to make the load easier. He was going to earn this escape.  
  
His feet rattled lightly on the walk leading away from the house. He hit the street and hooked a left, kept going. There would be plenty of time for the Knight Bus later. Right now, he needed this. This physical removal, walking away on his own two feet, as the icy night time wind ripped around him. He never looked back.  
  
And he never saw Pivet Drive again. 


	3. Good Bye

"When?"  
  
Now that was an answer Draco hadn't expected. One little word just spun his entire stand point around, and his prepared vigilance and acid tongue melted down a step. When? That was possibly the least smart ass, biting thing his father had ever said to him. Where was the put down? The snideness? The dozens of annoying and eerily accurate leading questions? Or even the flat out denial? 'When' almost sounded like an OK.  
  
Apparently he'd stared off into space to long, pondering the response, so his father felt the need to re-ask. "When are you going to move?!"  
  
Draco jerked, and his eyes went wide. He wasn't used to zoning out like that, he was the kid who could memorize curse names as he cast a hex and wrote down the name of a new counter he'd invented. "Soon," he said, sort of stumbling over his answer, "as soon as possible, actually. With a friend from school. We'll probably get a flat or something... I'd ask you if we could rent one of the summer houses but I think I'll be less gouged by the good merchants of the city."  
  
His father's eyes flashed, but not in anger. He let a deep, short chuckle emit from his mouth, almost like a bark, and then cut it off. "Right you are," he said, "right..." He stopped them, seeming to think over what Draco had said, as the silvery blonde boy kicked himself for giving up so much information in one go. He'd tripped, and said a lot more than he should have in an effort to regain his footing. "Who did you say you were saying with?"  
  
Draco blinked. Was that all? "A boy f-..." Draco instantly realized what this would sound like, and when he saw Lucius' eyebrow twitch up a bit, he changed forms. "A male friend of mine."  
  
"I'm sure," his father said, and Draco saw his eyes glittering in an amazingly strange way. Like Harry often remarked about Snape, it seemed that his father could read minds, but he supposed it was always that way with very intelligent, but very sinister acting people. Of course, some things it didn't take a genius to make out, as there were several young Muggle maid's under various subtle charms who did work around the house, that Draco suspected were there purely for his benefit but had never touched. "Not one of those two bear looking fellows... just like their fathers. Vincent and Gregory?"  
  
Wincing at those names- more at the memory than at the fact that he'd always simply addressed them as Crabbe and Goyle- Draco shook his head. "I don't think I'm going to tell you."  
  
His father went quiet for a moment, and then spoke very softly. "Why not?"  
  
Draco shrugged. "I don't think you'd approve," he said. "He isn't your type."  
  
"But he is yours, I'd imagine." Lucius said shortly. "Keep your secrets, son, but I hope you know I can find out, and soon."  
  
Draco smiled. Coldly. "Well I know how you enjoy the challenge."  
  
This seemed to anger his father even more, and it was obvious this conversation needed to close soon or there was going to be some serious trouble brewing. "Will you return here for Christmas holiday, or will you just be staying in your little hideaway?"  
  
With a shake of his head, Draco gave an answer that didn't correspond with his motion. "I don't know," he said simply. "I need to go now."  
  
Lucius smiled, with even less warmth than his son had. "Well you finally got around to answering my original question," he said. "I'll see you later, son."  
  
"Sure," Draco said, and left.  
  
He never saw the Malfoy Mansion again.  
  
***  
  
The 'I'm going to try to find a flat' had been bullshit, of course. They'd already had the lease on one for three weeks before they decided to leave, so they would be able to get out the second they notified their guardians. It was a below ground apartment that fit both of their needs perfectly- it was cool, the light was dim, and nobody bothered them. They celebrated upon moving in, of course, after Harry had assured Draco for the seventh time that "Yes, things had gone fine. Everything was OK. I bumped my head on the counter."   
  
But Draco knew he was lying.  
  
Draco could taste the tears on his skin.  
  
  
  
  
Authors Note: Want to know where in the fuck I'm going with this? Me to. No, no, I have a general idea... but I'm developing as I go along, so this might not flow so brilliantly. 


	4. The Beginning

In the eleven years since the fall of the Dark Lord, the Death Eaters who were not dead or in Azkaban had become soft. Since walking away from the paths of bodies that they had carved through the public in the past they has come unaccustomed to the killing, comfortable in their new status in society, and happy with the government jobs and boons they had been granted as a repentance for the Misitrys lateness in freeing them from their 'bonds'. Though none dared to say it, many of the Death Eaters wished that the night had never come where they felt the mark burn again against their arms.  
  
That thought flashed through Lucius' mind in an instance, and he quickly expelled it, as he knelt prostrate on the stone floor of one of the many floors of his basement. His robes, which once would have scraped against the chalk lines he had sketched across the floor, were stretched barely comfortably across his body. He would get new ones... god knew he could afford them... but Death Eater robes were cut in a defined and unchangable style that could be recognized by most tailor's of the world, and it really wasn't a risk worth taking.  
  
"Luuuuciussss...."  
  
Lucius winced at the sound of his own name, and fixated his glance even more focused upon the floor. Though he didn't have the skill of Parseltongue, he could guess quite easily that those slow, hissing words were what the serpents would sound like when they spoke in the language of man. "Yes," he mumbled, adding "my Lord" almost late in the phrase. He really did need to get back in practice.  
  
"I am calling upon you for a great task, Lucius. A great task indeed."  
  
Not surprisingly, this did not bring a smile to the lord of Malfoy Manor's face. Certain things meant good, pleasant, when addressed to as 'great'. Tasks appointed by the Dark Lord were not one of those things. Great meant difficult, and it meant that if you failed, you would not be around to fail again.   
  
"Your son... is living with Potter."  
  
Eight white streaks appeared on the stone below as Lucius' hands seized up, scraping his nails roughly, and he almost lost his footing in his position of reverence. Of course! That's why he hadn't been able to find out on his own... looking into the current residence of the Gryffindor's patrons had been so absurd he hadn't even considered it. His son... and the ultimate enemy. Briefly, Lucius dwelt on what this meant for the fate of his son, but then pushed the thoughts aside. He could address that later. For now, he needed to be on his toes.  
  
"I want you to remove Potter, once and for all."  
  
It was like being struck by lightning. Euphoria over the ultimate task battled in vain against the terror of responsibility and the dreading of failure, and he was ultimately left feeling simply hollow. How in God's name was he supposed to do what hundreds of dark wizards had not been able to over the last few months since Voldemort's uprising? Dumbledore had so many anti magic charms laid down... it was physically impossible for a dark wizard to even step within a mile of a protected house, let alone cast spells at it. He couldnt get his son to do it, he knew that, and if that was what the Dark Lord was expecting...  
  
And then it hit him.  
  
The father.  
  
Wait, it wasnt the father...  
  
It was the Uncle.  
  
He would use the Uncle.  
  
He bowed his head even lower to the flor. "Your will be done, my Lord." But Voldemort had been long sicne done was him, and he uttered the shaky words to empty air. 


	5. The Letter

To Whom it May Concern...  
Dear Sir,   
I believe you are as aware as I am that the child you adopted and raised as your own is far from ordinary. I know of his powers as much as you do. I know what he can do, and to some degree, I know what he can do. I also know you did, and do, not approve of such a lifestyle. As with all level headed thinking, that is something I can respect. I understand that it would bring a level of pain and embarrassment to both you and your family if such eccentricities were revealed to the world, with your name attached to it.  
  
Knowledge has fallen into my hands that I believe you are not aware of. It is not about this boy's original alternate lifestyle, but a second which he has chosen. It has come to my attention that this boy no longer lives within the walls of your home, and has struck out on his own... or so he may have led you to believe. There is nothing singular about the life he is living right now. He has moved into an apartment with another boy of similar mutations. Instead of keeping things hidden as such curses should be, they have chosen to flaunt them over the past weeks, attaching a great deal of distaste to the name they are leaving behind wherever they go- Dursley.  
  
Respect is deserved of all respectable men. You are a respectable man, and do not deserve the shame that is being thrust upon you. However, I am not in any sort of actionable position myself, so I leave things upon you to act as you deem necessary. Such decisions should always be left in the hands of capable men such as ourselves.  
  
*Lucius*  
  
Vernon Dursley stared at the piece of parchment he held in his shaking hands with some twisted mix between rage, disgust, and horror. It was coming at last. The dog, turning to not only bite the hand that fed it, but to rip it off and maul it, then spit it in the mud and trod upon it. That ungrateful wretch of a freak was doing what they had put sixteen years of effort and training to prevent.  
  
White faced, Vernon placed the letter down on the end table, and then picked it up again. He read it again, and again, over and over, not believing a word he was reading, and then believing all of it, and then not caring. The possibility was there. It had always been there. But the money... the money had clouded his vision, it had blurred the lines. But things were clear now. Things had never been so clear. He could see from A to E, and he knew exactly what stops he needed to take at B, C, and D. It was a simple thing, such a simple thing, that he had overlooked it... but he wouldn't make that mistake again.  
  
He rose from his chair with a slow and steady motion, hardly noticing as he shredded the letter into three dozen sharp edged little pieces. They made good kindling for the fire for a few seconds before puffing to ash and blowing up from the chimney, spread out for all the world to see if they could read the letters racing through the air. For a moment he wondered, or tried to wonder, who Lucius was, and where he had gotten his information. But he simply could not view it as important. It wasn't important.  
  
What he needed to do was important.  
  
His shaking ceased, Vernon opened a door that lead from the kitchen, and began to descend the stairs into the houses basement.  
  
***  
  
Lucius Malfoy had never been so proud of himself in his entire life. In his line of work... his *other* line of work anyway, the line that involved curses and explosions and torture, there was so need for subtlety. He wasn't sure if he'd be able to excursive it correctly, magic or not, but he had spent a pain staking week crafting the letter, trying to make it do what a simple controlling charm couldn't- make the target truly *want* to do what was instructed... without ever instructing them.  
  
***  
  
There were twenty steps in all. Vernon noticed that right away, as he counted them for the first time in his life. Twenty stairs. Twenty one years for manhood. Catch twenty two... and there were no twenty threes. He labeled his own line of thinking absurd, uncharacteristic, but it wouldn't stop playing in the back of his head. It wasn't distracting him, quite the opposite, it was making him pay even more attention to the one line of thinking that didn't seem to be blocked out by the endless buzz. His eyes scanned the basement, lingering with distaste on the dust, until he saw what he was looking for. A cold smile twisted under the mustache  
  
***  
  
'Necessary' has been a work of brilliance, Lucius thought to himself, subtlety at its finest. He had written 'what you feel is right' in the first draft, in the first six drafts... but the seventh was when the shot of brilliance spurned him to change it. The simple word put images in your mind, phrases. Necessary evil. Cruel but necessary. Necessary manslaughter.  
  
***   
  
The lock was covered with rust, as could be expected. Vernon had opened the chest once, upon inheriting it, and stared at its contents for only a few seconds before shutting it, locking it back up, and carrying it to the basement, where it would lay forgotten for sometime. The key was intricate, the old kind of key, that looked like it had flowed from the hands of a sculptor as opposed to the grip of a mold. It took some force, but the key turned, and Vernon opened the chest, staring upon the contents for the second time in his life  
  
***  
  
Charms. Charms were even better. Not control charms, those were not... subtle enough. Lucius was falling in love with that word. Subtle. It tasted delicious rolling back in forth between his tongue and his tonsils. Focusing charms. And distraction charms. Charms that brought one thing into focus and blocked out everything else, charms that increased testosterone production, a dozen charms were the final count that had been laid upon the letter, to be cast on whoever's eyes first played across the name written in an incredibly dark red ink at the bottom of the letter. 'Lucius'.  
  
***  
  
Vernon's eyes were wide, almost frantic, as he went about his business. The object he held was reflected in the gleaming pupils, which recorded each sturdy moment. A pin turned here, a bolt drawn back here... a dozen bright green shells with coppertone tips shoved down a coal black barrel. The quick twist that brought the item back together again, locking its new addition inside, to be called up with the flick of a trigger.   
  
For a moment, Vernon paused, to gather his thoughts.  
  
"There are no twenty threes..."  
  
He blinked a few times and rose to his feet, remembering the address written on the back of the letter, mumbling it to himself, as he climbed back up the twenty stairs to the kitchen. 


	6. The Exclamation Point

"So what do you miss the most?" Harry's hair was, for once, not falling around his eyes, as it instead hung straight down away from them towards the floor. He was lying on his back on the large bed in the center of the room, letting his head lay off the side, and was staring up from his awkward position at Draco, who was abusing a protruding pipe from the wall to no end by pumping out a quick set of pull ups. For a moment Harry played upon the image of that pipe breaking and spraying its contents all over Draco, but stopped instantly as he felt a smile begin to tug at the corners of his mouth. The last thing he wanted to do was the explain that little image to Draco as the reason for his unexpected grin.  
  
Draco simply shrugged his shoudersl, quite a feat considering he was using them to support all of his weight. They were playing a game that frequented with them, something quick and trite to fill passing spells of boredom in their little home. Comparing their current lives to their lives just a few weeks ago always gave them a fresh, happy out look on their current conditions, and the comparitive question about what Draco missed from Malfoy Manner was an easy one to get such things started. They both knew almost perfectly well that he wouldnt miss much from his old mansion if he was living in a box out on the streets. "Well..." he said, trying to think of some kind of smart sounding answer but drawing a blank, "I'd have to say the food."  
  
Harry blinked and rolled over, so he was facing correctly on the bed. "The food?"  
  
"Mhm.." Draco muttered, but he seemed distracted, his eyes darting quickly to the empty hallway to the left of their bedroom. "The servants made some great food. Not that I'm not a fan of putting burgers in a pan and simply throwing heat spells at them but..."  
  
"But what?" Harry prompted.  
  
"But somebodies here." Draco dropped easily down from the bar and snatched his robe off the dresser, not for dressing purposed but instead to pull one of the several wands hed accumulated out from inside the right sleeve. Oak, long, whispy, and supple as hell. Horrible at dueling, and shite with curses, but the perfect thing for a really good hex. Harry crawled to his feet beside him, looking concerned.  
  
"So?" he said nervously, "what do you need that for?"  
  
Draco glanced over his shoulder at him. "Because no one knows we're here."  
  
"So who do you think it is?"  
  
Draco frowned angrily as the dull footsteps hed heard from a few dozen feet away steadily grew closer. The back door to the room was only used by them, and the tenants above didn't even know it was there. "My father's sent someone to fetch me," he guessed simply, "so how about we duck back a bit?"  
  
Any hope that the footsteps might just be from some lost wandered or a stumbling drunk dissapeared as the doorknob jumped up in action, twisting to one side and stopping only when the deadbolt they kept drawn was pulled tight. There was a pause, and then it rattled once more, as if the agent wanted to be sure he hadn't been mistaken the first time. A second pause, and then an odd clicking sound, that Harry recognized and Draco didn't. After all, it was a muggle sound.  
  
What wizard had need of guns?  
  
There was a resounding boom so loud that Draco almost dropped his wand, and suddenly the door knob was simply... gone. In its place was a jagged edged hole a foot in diameter, clipping off at the edge of the door. With ringing ears, Draco barely caught the view of a beefy hand holding something shiny and metal, before the door came slamming inwards thanks to a sharp kick from what appeared to be a set of oversized loafers. It was just then that Draco realized it was raining outside, and the bizaree form of an overweight Muggle with a massive mustache and some kind of metal object was perfectly framed in the doorway for a moment.  
  
Draco was speechless. Harry was not. "Uncle... Uncle Vernon?" he asked in utter disbelief.  
  
Vernon didn't answer, he simply stepped into the room and slammed the door back shut behind him. He looked amazingly pale, even for someone who had just been walking in the rain, and his eyes were glinting in a way Harry hadn't seen since he'd first met Sirius, clawing over Ron's broken leg to try to get at who, at the time, they had thought was Ron's pet rat Scabbers. Draco shot Harry a goggle eyed stare. "*This* is your Uncle!?" he choked out.  
  
"Boy..." the bizaree figure spoke, and his voice sounded caught. "You're coming back with me. Back home. Back to youre cupboard. Come."  
  
For some reason, Vernon's eyes didn't go anywehre near the area Harry was standing when he spoke, and it was with a very confused voice that Harry responded. "Uh... Uncle Vernon? I havent slept under the cupboard since I was eleven years old."  
  
The pause that followed was near infinite. "Come. Now."  
  
Draco had heard enough of this. Uncle or not, this man was simply crazy or drunk, and had just taken out most of their security deposit with a 12. gauge. "I think you'd better leave," he growled, brandishing his wand, before remembering some of the stories he'd heard from Harry about his Uncle's utter disbelieve in all things magical. He would probably think he was threatening to stab him with a twig.   
  
Harry held out a hand to try to steady Draco, though he looked just as worried. "Uncle Vernon, I'm not going anywhere."  
  
Something like relief seemed to wash over the shaken, scared looking man, and he slumped a bit. It was as if he had been waiting for Harry to say exactly that. And then Draco saw the glint in his eyes too, and realized that he *had* been waiting for Harry to say exactly that. The muffled "fine" could barely be heard from under the mustache, and Vernon calmly raised the weapon in his hands. Harry's eyes went wide.  
  
"NO!!!"  
  
Gunshot and scream went off simultaneously, but a scream, no matter how desperate and primal, can not stop lead from going through the air. For a moment, all that Draco could think of was the door, what had happened to it, and he wondered if Harry would be easier to open now, in a truly bizarre example of human thought. And then something warm and sticky hit him in the face.  
  
There are some spells in the world that can be triggered only by emotion. They can never be taught, and can never be forgotten, because they are born in the blood of a wizard. They were the one deciding factor, since birth, whether or not a man or woman would grow up to be a wizard. Some ventured that love was the strongest spell. Some said it was anguish. Others said sheer horror could cause much more of an effect.  
  
It turned out, in the end, to be all three.  
  
Despite the seconds past between the pulling of the trigger and the spell itself, Uncle Vernon hit the wall a second before Harry did. He hit the wall, and kept going. Drywall was shredded as a human body flew through it, and no less than fifteen feet away finally thudded to the ground, driven to the ground by the twisted form of said body. Draco stared out the gaping spot that used to be his wall, and then spun around.  
  
"Harry..." he half moaned, and then scooped the boy up. The brilliant green eyes were jammed closed, but Draco could feel the faintest breath against his bare chest.   
  
Legally, Draco was not allowed to Dissaparate or Apparate anywhere. He'd never even thought of taking the test.  
  
He appeared in Godric Falls, the wizarding hospital, in the blink of an eye.  
  
  
::::: Next Chapter- Last Chapter ::::: 


	7. The Fire

Numbness. People cried when they felt it. It was synonymous with empty, with vacant, with cold. It was a sign of frost bite, of disease, of impending death. Its what people used to describe zombies, soulless abominations who walked the planet coldly and without purpose. Draco would have killed for that feeling.  
  
And he intended to.  
  
The wizarding hospitals in England were labeled the absolute best in the planet. They had the strongest potions, the wizards who'd mastered the strongest healing spells. That, paired with a natural physical protection that wizarding blood granted the body it flowed through, they had a fatality rate of less than .05%. Apparently, Draco thought, 2,000 men and women had walked out alive.  
  
The doctor, face plastered with sweat and tears- obviously Draco would not be the only one to mourn one of the most famous wizards on the planet's passing- had tried to explain it in some half cocked scientific way. He explained how a shotgun work, how the pellets exploded outward, going in a dozen different directions and effecting at least three different organs very seriously. They had patched up his stomach and his liver, but had only seconds to try to fix up his lungs, in a procedure that took minutes to fully go through. Even the best medical wizards in the world hadn't been able to pull it off.  
  
He'd thought about taking a swing at the doctor. He wasn't sure why, he knew that the man had done anything he- or anyone else- could have to try to help, but the fact remained that he failed. But Draco had already started to search for the numbness, looking for the frozen icicle to cling to, and the doctor had sadly retreated before Draco fully comprehended how much he wanted to rip through the man's throat and pull out his spine directly through his mouth.   
  
Draco had a half dozen wands back in his house. He collected them of sorts, and he wasn't sure why, because he was only truly proficient with his dueling wand, and he couldn't even describe how creepy he thought that Mr. Ollivander was. But he went there just the same, looking at the newly forged wands, picking out anything that happened to catch his eye and special ordered some alterations for it. A spiraling handle of gold, scale ridged, that went all the way up to the tip, where an open snake mouth protruded.   
  
Now he had a new wand, and there was no alterations needed. It certainly wasn't a Yew, elven inches, springy. Or an elm, fourteen inches, whispy. It was steel, seven inches long, and inflexible. It gleamed when he turned it into the light, and it jutted out of a ropy, leather handle. It was the kind of wand a Muggle would understand. It was the kind of wand they would call a knife.  
  
Vernon was still sitting in the clearing he had been launched to when Draco had left, but he'd managed to crawl his way to a wall and was slouched against it miserably, clutching a four inch gash on the side of his temple that had stained his usually spotless hair brown and red. He managed to look in the general direction that Draco marched into the area from, but his eyes seemed unfocused, and it was obvious he had one hell of a concussion. The fact that he was a massive, cumbersome shape did nothing to deter Draco as he advanced, and he only took the time to mutter "Maxima" under his breath before he arrived. He caught him by the ripped shirt and hauled him up off his feet so that his toes were dangling a good eight inches above the ground, his magically enervated muscles barely tensing up beneath his robes.   
  
"Hello," he said to the man, "lets go have some fun."  
  
*****  
  
He'd only seen a Muggle movie one time, with Harry, some pathetically underactioned cop movie with what was called 'special effects' and could probably be conjured by an eight year old with his wand. But there was a scene that was actually entertaining because it showed what Harry explained as a 'shake down' scene... two dirty cops had grabbed an innocent man and were trying to force him to confess to a murder he didn't commit. They used all kinds of tricks, and although Draco didn't think any of them were right for him, he did like the spinning fan in the background. Of course, a wizard doesn't need a fan to make noise and wind.  
  
He kept hearing the voice. His voice. Harry's voice. It was in his head, speaking too softly for him to hear. I wonder, he thought, If this is what its like to be insane. Hearing voices that aren't there. A ponderous expression spread across his face as he finished tying a knot and hooked the rope over the pipe and pulling down on it, lifting the hefty cargo on the other end into the air and keeping it there. Of course, he thought, people who are insane don't know it. So it must be perfectly sane to here voices.   
  
Vernon still hadn't fully come to, to which Draco snorted. That was pathetic. He didn't care what kind of spill you took, you should be able to form coherent words after the first two hours. But all Vernon could do was look wide eyed and make some strange muffled mumbling sound as Draco wandered around the room, getting things ready, and then pulled out the knife.   
  
"Oh yeah..." he said, fighting a sudden urge to giggle. "I guess I should undo that, shouldn't I?" He grabbed a real wand (Redwood, eight inches, firm) and waved it casually, breaking the charm he'd cast to keep Vernon's jaw jammed shut. Instantly the man started screaming, and Draco rolled his eyes, before rearing back and striking the man right across the jaw. He silenced for a moment, his scream lowered to a muffled growl.  
  
"Now listen here, big man." Draco was sounding downright conversational as he looked Vernon up and down, pressing his newest want against his own hand, casually taking small slices out of the palm of his hand with the knife- shouldn't I be feeling that, he wondered. "I checked your residue over real quick before I bound you up here. You've been charmed six ways to Sunday. I want to know who did it."  
  
For a moment, Vernon didn't answer, and Draco wasn't sure if he was shaking from rage or fear. And then he practically spit out the words, a bit of blood dribbling from the side of his mouth. "I don't know what you're talking about you..." he seemed to be searching for the worst insult he knew, "...freak! I avoid your twisted kind like plague."  
  
Draco sighed, and leaned back for a moment. Then without warning he jutted forward, raising his knee and burying it in Vernon's stomach. The man would have doubled over if he could have, but Draco had him bond tight, and all he could do was groan in pain and begin to retch. Oblivious, Draco grabbed his face and straightened him up. "Really? OK, that means it was packaged. So you're going to tell me about any phone calls, letters, snacks... anything you've been given by someone you don't know in the last two weeks. actually, you're going to tell me where you got them."  
  
Once again, Vernon was silent, and Draco wasted no time with knees this time. He simply raises his knife and pressed it against the man's shoulder as he watched in disbelief from around his frazzled mustache, and pulled hard to the side, laying the shoulder open three inches wide. The man screamed, his eyes closing tightly in pain, drowning out for a moment the ever-growing volume of Harry's voice in Draco's head. "No, no, no..." it was amazing the things you could imagine in this state.  
  
"Tell me. Now."  
  
Vernon's eyes closed tightly, and he seemed to be thinking for all his life. Draco could just imagine how much the shoulder wound hurt, especially considering he had dipped the knife in a battle of Muggle cleaning solvent... something called Draino... that he'd found in the alley before this little production began. "L... l-..." he kept trailing off, and agitated, Draco prompted him.   
  
"Letter? Lucifer? Lucious?"  
  
"Lucius!" the man screamed, seeming unbelievably relieved. "It was Lucius! He did it! He did it! Go find him! Lucius!"  
  
Draco stared at him blankly, not understanding the feelings brewing inside him. He wasn't shocked or horrified, simply... strained. Like he'd known all along who it was, but had needed confirmation, even though this was all totally new to him now. Oh well, he thought simply, barely hearing himself over the imaginary voice in his head that was absolutely screaming now. Now I know. "Good for you," he said calmly, "you figured that out all by yourself."  
  
"Yes!" Vernon hissed, straining in pain. "Now let me go?"  
  
Draco smiled. "OK," he said, and patted Vernon once on the face, leaving a dark red hand print on his cheek, and then started to walk away. He casually reached up and removed the nose plugs he'd summoned to him, allowing the overwhelming smell of the room to flood in. Gasoline always did have some a pungent odor, and the room was completely saturated with it. He turned back to Vernon when he reached the entrance to the shack he'd transported them to- after all, the cops would have heard about the gunshots by now- and shot him his biggest grin. "As long as your heading to hell."  
  
He lit the match up with one hand, using his nail to scratch the tip into flame. Vernon's eyes went almost impossibly wide, and he screamed, just once, before Draco re-applied the mouth bind with a wave of his hand. "Now," he said, "isn't this a very Muggle way to die?"  
  
He spun and dropped the match at the same time, barely making it outside of the flames out ward leaping distance. The flickering heat swept over the wood, tracing across liquid lines left on the floor, until they reached the barrels he'd piled up in the center. The impending explosion knocked him off his feet, and if it hadn't, the twirling piece of shrapnel wood that arched right past where he'd been standing a minute before would have. He turned over on the ground, blinking against the brilliance of the blazing building and the heat that was rolling out over him, and smiled a small smile.  
  
"Ow." He said. And watched the building burn.  
  
  
*Welcome to my world, Ladies and Gentleman. Tiger handed me the story and let me run with it because he said he didn't know what to do, so I cocked up a little plan. By the way, this isn't the last chapter, the next one will be. And the title is now officially 'Lost', because I want it to be. Got it? Good. Falcon.* 


	8. The Second Liver

A/N- slight correction of calling Falcon the new author... apparently he's not the credit hog he seems to be (kidding, kidding). As I write these he's in my ear talking a mile a minute (the phone, get it?) telling me some key phrases, events, and the like, but I'm actually hitting the keys and doing to transitional stuff. He just thought you'd want to know. Fss, shows what he knows  
  
***  
  
Draco was getting tired. They told you all about Apparating in school. They told you about its dangers, its uses... if you hung around Granger for more than five minutes you'd end up hearing you couldn't do it onto or off of Hogwarts grounds. What they didn't tell you was that when you weren't used to it, it was very, very draining. It wasn't like his legs hurt, or his muscles strained- he did have the Maxima charm, after all- it was something different that that. For the first time in his life he was beginning to realize how Muggles felt, having to deal with the fact that they had limits, and that they were smacked in the face with them everyday. No wonder they jammed themselves in such unseemingly and uncomfortable looking clothes, it was like an exact representation of their skills on the outside.  
  
His hometown. If you could call it that. The Mansion was miles away from the actual city, but it was the closest public gathering area to it, so it was his hometown by proxy. He didn't really know why, but he didn't think his father would be in the mansion. Maybe it was because he still remembered how his dad was never there on his birthdays, when he got home from school... every Christmas except the one where his mother went out and his father spent the morning fucking some giggly whore in one of his many offices. Carefully, he held up his aura wand (Pine, 7 inches, firm) in the palm of his hand, letting it sit loosely. "Show me," he muttered, and the wand spun for a moment, and then pointed directly down the street. His eyes traced the path it carved out. The Bar. Typical.  
  
He decided to spare himself the effort in another Apparation and simply walked down the road, his hand never leaving the wand he had jammed in one of the folds of his robe. The bleeding had been stopped with a single wand wave, but the palm was still dark red from the blood that had already spilled and was drying in the cracks of his skin. For a moment he wondered if it was staining his robe, and began to laugh. That kind of thing didn't matter anymore. It probably never would again.  
  
It really wouldn't do to march in the front door waving his wand around like some kind of vigilante. The voice in his head was telling him that. Not the one that was simply moaning, sounding desperate, but growing quieter ("No, no, Draco, god, no.."), but the one he liked to call the other Draco. The smart Draco. The Draco that knew all the tricks of the trade, knew all the lingo of the streets, all the tricks of the duel. The Draco he wanted to become. Or had wanted to. There would be at least a dozen men loaded in that place, drunk off their asses, which made them both more dangerous even as it made their aim worse. Stupid risks were not something he needed to be taking this early in the game.  
  
He calmly leapt the iron link fence that rimmed the back of the pub, reopening the cuts on his hands on the barbed wire that had been wound around the top of the gate. He marched up to the wooden door -wizards had no need of steel when they wanted to keep someone out- and pounded on it just once, knowing there was a man directly on the other side especially meant for special visitors. He heard once that Muggle doors of this nature had an eye piece that slid away so the bouncer could look out, but that wasn't necessary in this world. The door simply suddenly went clear, like glass, and Draco found himself looking at a bulked up, bald, and angry man. "What?" he snarled, simply.  
  
Draco tilted his head back, trying to seem utterly bored with the procedures, as if he did this kind of thing every day. As if that was even possible. If he did it right, he would never be able to do it again. "Lucius Malfoy," he drawled slowly, "tell him I have a message from his master."  
  
"His master?" The bouncer said cockily, trying to get the edge on the obviously younger wizard by forcing him to stammer over saying something stupid like 'You Know Who.'  
  
But Draco was tired of games. When you lived like a game, there was always some sadistic player with a rulebook you'd never heard of, in some foreign language so you could never understand it anyway. And then people you loved got shot. "Voldemort," he hissed out the bouncer, enjoying how badly he jerked, and the way his eyes darted frantically behind Draco, as if the Dark Lord was actually standing behind him.  
  
"Y-yeah..." the bouncer breathed out, then took a steadying breath. "Sure."  
  
***  
  
His father came out promptly, as everyone did when summoned by the Dark Lord. Draco stood facing away from him, eyes crossed, fingers still on a death lock with the handle of his wand. He felt something odd in his stomach, and he truly didn't know if it was fear or yearning. The lines between such things had been blown away with a 12. caliber shell. He stood waiting for his father to speak first, the only thing he hadn't planned being a way to start their conversation. It didn't take long. Patience was not one of Lucius Malfoy's greatest traits. "You have a message for me?"  
  
Draco turned calmly, rolling his shoulders back to make sure the hood he wore on his cloak wasn't covering any part of his face. "Actually, no."  
  
His fathers eyes widened, and then narrowed into amazingly snake like slits. Draco knew his father had actually trained the look... the fact he wasn't able to speak Parseltongue really bugged the hell out of his father. "Draco. Never do something like this again." He snarled, "you're going to get yourself killed. What in the hell is this...oh. Yes. That."  
  
Draco raised an eyebrow, the only outward representation of the scream welling inside him. That!? For a minute Draco no longer wanted to play this out, just wanted to leap forward and lock his teeth onto his father's throat, chewing right through the jugular vein and letting the blood spray across his face. Maybe that would make the voice stop. But no. This had to be done right. "Yes. That." He said, and he smiled. "It was quite a job."  
  
His father said nothing, but he obviously caught the look in Draco's eye. The boy saw his father's far too casual, pointless movement that ended up with his hands on his sleeve let them both know that his father knew what this was about.  
  
"But come now father, I don't think you can take all the credit." If anything, Draco's eyes grew a little brighter. "After all, I don't think you found out where I was staying at all. And I would like to know who told you."  
  
His father snorted. "What gives you the slightest idea that I would tell you that?"  
  
Draco made no point of not letting his father know exactly what he was doing as he pulled his wand out, and pointed it directly at the man. His father quickly fumbled with his own wand, and pointed it right back. "Put that away," he growled, "before you get hurt."  
  
"Fine." Draco said. "Who told you?"  
  
His father, momentarily, seemed weakened. Draco saw his shoulders droop a bit, and even his wand tilted downwards, towards the slightly less lethal area of Draco's collarbone. "You know who, Draco."  
  
Draco blinked at him. "I know who? Or You-Know-Who?"  
  
"That isn't funny, Draco," his father said, looking nervous. Draco could not believe he had once looked up to this man as god. He appeared as the weakest person on the planet right now.   
  
"You remember that game, Dad?" Draco asked, and it was obvious his father had no idea what he was talking about, so Draco continued before Lucius could vocalize that fact. "The one where you'd take me up to the first floor balcony that looked out on the courtyard. I was seven, and it was a twenty foot drop. You'd tell me to jump." Recognition began to dawn on his father's face, but there was still plenty of confusion. "You told me I was a wizard, I would protect myself at the landing. But I couldn't jump. You'd urge me, Dad. You'd count, 1, 2, 3, JUMP! But I didn't. And then you laughed at me. You called me pathetic. And you went back inside, locking the door behind you. You told me you'd let me back in the house when I jumped. But I didn't. And I stayed out there. All night. Until mum finally let me in because it was freezing out and I had almost passed out."  
  
Lucius stared back at him coldly. "Yes," he said, "I remember. My father did it with me. I actually jumped though. What of it?"  
  
Draco smiled. "Hey, Dad..."  
  
"What!?" his father snapped, and Draco realized the man was sweating.  
  
"1...2...3... JUMP!"  
  
Green light flashed through the alleyway, but it wasn't the only spell cast. More green light, rushing the other way. His father always was good with counters. Green light rushed over Draco, and he felt wind whipping around him, pulling his hair and his robes backwards. Whoops, he thought giddily, looks like I made a little mistake. But something was wrong. He was only seeing shadows, and he saw the shadow of his father collapse, but his legs stayed under him. He felt some strong hands on his shoulder, holding him down, holding him to the ground. He didn't look over his shoulder, but he knew who it was. Harry. Holding him down. Keeping him in. And suddenly the mystery of the Boy Who Lived didn't seem so odd, and Draco wondered if Harry remembered his parents holding him up when Voldemort cast that final spell at him. Probably not. He would tell him himself.  
  
But not today.  
  
The light faded, and the wind died down. Draco collapsed, but only because of exhaustion. There was a throbbing pain in his forehead, and he clambered back to his feet, clutching at it. Blood ran freely between his fingers, and he realized there was a deep gash in his forehead, pointing right down between his eyes, and it was pouring blood much more than naturally.  
  
He was going to have a scar.  
  
  
  
  
A/N: Nope, still not done. Were just totally jerking you around with this 'last chapter' stuff. Sorry bout it. 


	9. Preperations

They called him the Kid, even though he was about thirty eight years old now. Rumor had it he'd first gotten into the business at the age of twelve, which is obviously where his nick name had originated, and all skeptics had to do is look him over once to have all their doubts set aside. The Kid was what the Muggles called a tattoo artist of sorts, and it would have taken at least twenty six years to do the work over on himself that he had. He was white, but you wouldn't be able to tell from a distance. It really depended what part of his body you looked at nowadays. Ink was his second skin, loosely fitting designs of different shapes and colors that all intertwined, and seemed more weird than anything else... until you looked closer. Under magnification smaller patterns were evident, smaller color schemes, and more intertwining. He was like a human tapestry.  
  
He was also said to be one of the most powerful wizards in the eastern hemisphere.  
  
Wizard tattoos are different than the cheap Muggle imitations. The ink they use are really potions. Subtle ones, yes, but potions nonetheless, and they are as useful as they are artistic. Special boons could be given by the presence of some of those potions, special protections given by the right symbol or the right design. The truly talented artists in the craft were said to be able to contain spells in the tattoos they drew, to lie dormant until called upon by the sigils wearer. Needless to say, there was no removing of wizard tattoos.  
  
Draco placed the bag on the table in front of the kid. It hit the table with an almost impossibly loud noise for an item that small, and it was obvious what the contents were before the Kid even glanced up. Gold. It was generally not his asking favor in return for the gifts he granted, but by the looks of the young man in front of him, gold was all he really had to give. And those eyes... haunted. Though he'd never admit it to anyone- after all, he was a man of business- he felt right then that if Draco had not even had the gold, he would have done the tattoo for free.  
  
Eyes rimmed in a painting of steely curved scimitar blades glanced up and looked Draco over. "What are you looking for?" he asked him, in a voice marred with the rasp of someone who doesn't get out much. Or at all.   
  
Draco's face didn't twitch under the piercing gaze. "Protection," he said simply, "against a kiss."  
  
For a moment, The Kid drew a blank, and then recognition flickered into his eyes. He frowned, then picked up the bag of gold, weighing it with his hands, which he maintained were the only scale he would ever need. "I think I can help," he said, "but were going to need to change your face a bit."  
  
Without speaking, Draco pulled back his hair, revealing the scar on his forehead. His eyes said the words. My face has already been changed. And I don't care.  
  
The Kid sighed, and pulled up his wand. Sixteen inches, ultra thin, ultra whinny. "OK then," he said.  
  
***  
  
It was raining out, but Hermione couldn't tell, even if she had been facing the window. Water running from her eyes would substitute just fine for the tears dripping from the heavens. Her lamp remained unlit, and the piles of books and papers on the desk in front of her were untouched. Her chair rocked softly with her in it, but she didn't notice that either. Her knees were drawn up to her chest and her arms were wrapped around them, her chin jammed firmly up top. She remembered sitting like this when she was a scared little girl, and it seemed appropriate now.   
  
"Oh Harry..." she moaned.  
  
It seemed so wrong, so unfair. He'd survived the strongest known curse thrown by the world's strongest dark wizard, and some psychotic in law had simply snuffed him out with a rifle. It was horrible, and it was unreal. Hermione had simply refused to belief it at once. But shed gone to the hospital anyway, just to prove them wrong, and then had seen him. His body had been whole, they'd repaired him fine... just not quickly enough. His eyes had been closed, thank gods, but she could still feel him staring at her...  
  
A knock came at her door and she jumped, hard, almost spilling off her chair. Wondering if her parents had gotten home from their vacation she quickly wiped her cheeks with the sleeve of her shirt and rushed to the door. Anyone, or anything to talk to would be better than sitting here alone. Even Neville, at a time like this. Anyone. Hastily she threw open the door... and realized shed been wrong.  
  
"You!" she nearly choked, "What do you want?"  
  
Draco was framed in the doorway, rain pouring down over him, but he seemed oblivious. He was momentarily surprised. He and Harry had been living together for a bit now, and it was a complete secret. So in Dumbledore's words, that Harry had recited to him, naturally the whole school knew. Oh course, Harry would make it a point not to let Ron and Hermione know, wouldn't he? Love or not, they wouldn't exactly take it with bright smiles. And then he remembered it was raining.  
  
"Can I come in?" he muttered, and Hermione recoiled at how raw his voice sounded. Then she nodded numbly. Draco sighed and nodded in appreciation, then stepped inside.  
  
Hermione followed closely behind him. "Draco, what are you... oh my god. What happened to you? You look worse than..." she froze, realizing how horribly morbid what she was about to say was, and suddenly burst into tears. Draco made no move to comfort her, because he had no comfort to offer. His grief was levels beyond hers.  
  
"Than Harry. I know. And yeah, I probably do..." the cut aside, the Kid had gone at him with coal black ink, tracing interlocking tiger stripes over his cheeks, looping around his eyes, and two each hooking down around his jaw like ant mandibles. It made him look like some kind of skeleton. Of course, if it worked, it worked... and looks no longer mattered. He decided to simply go out and explain things. "I need your help, Hermione."  
  
She looked up at him through streaming tears, sniffed once, and hiccuped. "With what?"  
  
Draco paused. He had no idea how to say this. A week ago he would have smirked and detailed specific ways he and Harry had fucked like rabbits. But now... he took a deep breath. "Harry and I have been living together. I was there when his uncle shot him."  
  
Silence. Dead silence.  
  
"His Uncle wasn't just acting on impulse... he'd been hexed. And you know exactly who it was that was responsible. I'm going after him."  
  
Hermione gazes at him in disbelief, obviously trying to process one fraction of this information. She responded with the only thing she could think of. "You're crazy."  
  
Draco nodded. "Yeah. Uh... yep. I am. I can still hear him you know."  
  
Hermione jerked as if she had been slapped. "You what?"  
  
He shrugged. "I still hear him. He... well, he doesn't really talk. I hear him chanting... he's crying a lot of the time. So yes, I'm just a little crazy."  
  
"Posmorta Conncocta..."  
  
Draco looked at her as if shed joined him in the depths of insanity. "What?"  
  
Hermione looked very pale all of the sudden. "Harry always talked about it... he still heard his parents for years, until he turned eleven... he thought he was just making it up, imagining a set of parents to make himself happy. But he looked into it. And there are a few records... posmorta conncocta. The dead contacting with the living. Not real conversation but... a message, I guess."  
  
Draco continued to stare at her. She cleared her throat. "You do know were never going to see you again if you go after him, right?" she asked, "Too many have been lost today..."  
  
"That's the plan," Draco said simply. Hermione nodded. Typical.  
  
"What do you need?" She asked.  
  
"For starters," he said, "an address. And a potion. For transfiguration."  
  
***  
  
Sirius Black stepped outside the door, the weight of the pack on his back unfelt across his muscular shoulders. His face had returned to the state it had been in Azkaban... gaunt, drawn, and pale. He didn't know why he'd come here before setting off. The shrieking shack held so many horrible memories... of course, that might have been the point. He was adding this one, the worst of them all, to the stockpile, before ending it all. Because he was going to repeat himself after fifteen years. But this was no Peter Pettigrew he was hunting. He was heading after a much bigger fish.  
  
"Sirius."  
  
The voice was choked, but still familiar. Sirius could remember it sounding smugger, lighter, only a week ago... he had gone to visit Harry, as he often did now that he was out on his own, and couldn't say he'd been entirely surprised to find out what was going on under that roof. "Hullo, Draco," he said, and it sounded like he was screaming it, but softly. He didn't figure he'd ever be able to talk correctly again. It was like someone had slit his throat, taking his vocal chords with it. Or at least some of them.  
  
"You aren't going anywhere, Sirius."  
  
Stunned, this time Black did turn around. What was this, another betrayal in his life? He would kill Draco with his bare hands if it was. But the man he saw standing there was not Draco Malfoy. Whoever it was, it wore his face... decorated, yes, but his... but there was nothing Draco in that expression. His angry retort was cut off, and he kind of exhaled his improvised question. "What are you talking about?"  
  
Draco walked up to him, and laid a hand on his shoulder. Sirius would take it as sympathy, but he knew that wasn't what it was. It was comradary. Draco was empty, and he knew Sirius was empty too. He was just acknowledging that fact. "I'm going, Sirius, and we can't both go."  
  
Sirius closed his eyes tightly, pain jarring threw him. He knew what was coming, and he felt like he was being robbed from a conquest that should be his, but he also knew he would do whatever Harry's lover asked of him. "Because you need me to give you some power."  
  
Draco nodded at him. "Borrow it, really," he joked, with no humor in his voice, "I don't think Ill be able to keep it for very long. But you're the only one I can ask. Because you're the only one who feels the same way."  
  
Sirius heaved a sigh. He turned to Draco, and his face was the face of a lost man. "I considered Harry my son. You know that, don't you?"  
  
With a nod, Draco screamed inside his head. He could not deal with any one elses hurt, he wasn't even dealing with his own. "I know."  
  
Sirius placed his hand on Draco's forehead, over the scar. "I think that, with time, I would have thought of you the same way. Lets go into Hogsmeade. Well need some ingredients for the instill energy charm..."  
  
Draco cut him off by holding up a bag of his own. "They're all right here. I made a stop with someone who knows this sort of thing."  
  
Eyeing Draco's tattoos, Snape nodded. Of course he did. "All right," he said, and reached into his backpack. he pulled out a knife, and calmly pressed it against his forearm, easily slicing through the cloak there, and ripped it to the side. He didn't make a sound as the blood began to fall, and Draco held out his hand, catching the spilling drops.  
  
Step one, Sirius thought. Step one. 


	10. The End

You would have that Jesus had returned to his people and was walking among them, distributing miracles and blessings to the faithful and forgiving the sinners, the way the men in the makeshift barracks acted when Lucius Malfoy walked through the gates. Had it been anyone less than Lucius, there would have been an explosion, men clapping, hollering, congratulating for whatever monumental task had been achieved. A momentary reprieve from the tension and grudginess of this 'beautiful, glorious' life of darkness. But this was Lucius Malfoy, and he might as well have been Jesus Christ for what he did. He didnt make a corpse walk again, he finally buried one that had been walking for seventeen years.  
  
He was the man who had managed to kill Harry Potter.  
  
So there was no explosion, no clapping, no congratulations. There was silence, dead silence, the silence that comes from reverence. No one said anything because no one could say anything *enough* to encompass the honor that Lucius' very name now brought to scenes. He would be the Dark Lords new right hand man, there was no doubt about that, he would soon rule over them all. But amazingly, there was no resentment, no hatred. It was like the Greeks being told that Julius Ceasar would lead them into battle. But there would be no March 15th this time around... at least not in this decade. But almost certainly in the next one. Rivals were not made, they were born, after all.  
  
He walked through the stone hall with robes sweeping, not looking to either side despite the fact that everybody was looking at *him*. It was the perfect act of regality. He approached a towering doorway, the entrance into the main hall of the building, a hall that was only to be accessed by the Dark Lord's head liteunants, with badges and passwords ready. The two guards standing there stepped aside without hesitation, allowing him to pass. It would not do to hinder the Messiah on his quest to meet his Father. It would not do at all. They might lose a finger for letting him through unquestioned. The *would* lose a hand if they did not.  
  
The Hall itself was all the real guarding any place on the planet would ever need. A narrow golden path (follow the yellow brick road, Lucius thought to himself, remembering reading the Muggle book once. He'd also heard they made a movie out of it, once.) went straight ahead, flanked on either side by a crusade of Dementors. At least a dozen on each side, more than enough power to bring the strongest man to his knees as the worst memories of his life pounded through him. But Lucius didn't flinch. He was already living that memory, and it was soaked through his system, playing behind his eyelids every time he blinked. It talked to him, in the back of his head, chanting over and over again. "Please... please... please..." it was saying, but Lucius didnt know what it was pleading for. His success? His failure? His death? Time would tell.  
  
Seemingly sensing something was wrong, one of the Dementors glided forwards towards him, reaching a twisted and mangled hand out towards his throat. Lucius heard something begin to swirl around him, the faintest rustling of wind, and he realized the Dementor was trying something, not the kiss, not the memories, but something foreign, something he was not prepared for.   
  
"STOP."  
  
The voice was not loud, but it was absolute. What else would the Dark Lords voice be in his own home? It was finality incarnate, and the Dementor did exactly what it said, and Lucius though that even its robe stopped sweeping as it froze in the exact position it had been in. The swirling swept away like the wind it was, leaving the hall suddenly silent.   
  
"Lucius is our honored guest," the voice said, "our very, very honored guest."  
  
For a moment, it seemed like the very air shimmered. Something rippled, and then faded away, and from blank air produced solid form, solid object, solid man. A dark throne, carved from jet, curled up around its occupant like a hand with long, spidery fingers. The occupant himself was as dark as the jet, not so much in color as in presence, and he placed down an impossibly long scroll to look at Lucius in away that would seem affectionate if not so twisted with a perverse glee. "We've been waiting your arrival," he said, and it was obvious he meant the others. Lucius had no doubt that the Dark Lord didn't care if he ever saw him again, but the disciples... they needed him, needed him to be set up as a hero. So Voldemort was playing the correct role in this situation, even though in his mind Lucius was sure that he himself had played the only role he had ever been useful for.   
  
"My liege," he murmured, and fell to one knee, sweeping his robes back around himself.   
  
"Rise, Lucius," the voice came, and it was amazing how something so cold could sound soft. "After the recent events, all I wish from you is allegiance, and not submittance. You performed beyond expectations in destroying a very powerful enemy of ours."  
  
Lucius did not rise. "My liege, I'm not sure I understand." He said. "My father was not so powerful."  
  
For a moment, Voldemort seemed to freeze. And then he rose from his throne, slowly, perching on the seat and looming high above Lucius. "So it is you," he hissed, "you've come to me."  
  
Draco stood up almost awkwardly. His father was strong, but bulky, not wiry like him, and the movements were different. He was not so accustomed to this body, not yet, even being under the influence of Polyjuice potion for several hours. Even pulling out his wand felt uncomfortable. For a brief moment he wondered if simply fighting his way into the Apparation guarded halls would have been better than polyjuice potion, especially after he'd had to go back to his fathers stiffening form and pluck hairs from his head. Hermione had been absolutely insistent on that part.  
  
Voldemort stared at him with the horrible red gashes he called eyes, and spoke so quietly it could not be heard. "You foolish child..." he said, "you foolish, impetuous, impotent and confused child. We would have let you go, you know. You were of no matter to us. You should not be here"  
  
Draco smiled at him, the cool, mirthless smile of the damned. "Well I am now." He said. "Even if it is just to take a moment of your time. Draw your wand, you pale son of a bitch, and end this for me." He was successfully doing what no other man had been able to do. He was standing, unflinching, before the Dark lord.  
  
For a moment, it seemed like Voldemort was going to comply. But his thoughts were obviously on this very unchararistic lack of fear, seeming even more unsettling from someone wearing the body of a sniveling worm such as Lucius was. Or had been. . It was nothing physical, just a shifting feeling of energy, that told Draco that Voldemort had no intention of going for his wand. Instead, he waved his hand, towards the Dementors.  
  
"Get rid off him," he said softly.  
  
They swarmed in like bats, even as Draco snapped the wand he was holding in two over his knee. It was like trying to break steel, but Draco was running on borrowed power that far surpassed his own. The jagged tip from either end of the shattered tool glowed red hot as they were exposed to the air, shooting sparks onto Draco's arms, which signed hair and burnt skin, which he simply ignored. "Phoenix feather," he growled plunging the tip of one of the ends into the nearest advancing Dementor, "burns hotter than the sun when broken." The Dementor burst into flame in an instant, and Draco shoved it backwards as it flailed, spreading its fire to another of its kind. He heard Voldemort hiss in displeasure, but there was no fear in the voice. They're were more than enough Dementors to suffice.  
  
Draco ducked a reaching claw and simply threw one of the two pieces of his wand into the grip of the reaching hand. It burst into flame like paper, and it became apparent that the Dementors themselves burnt better than their robes did. Draco swept his remaining half like a sword, catching the tail of one of the demons robes. It lit up, but another fell upon him, grabbing his arm with its claw like hands and sinking sharp yellow nails into his skin. The wand slipped from his fingers and clattered against the ground, and almost gracefully the Dementor slid up his chest, gripping his shoulders and locking its teeth directly onto Draco's lips. He would have screamed as a set of teeth ripped through the fragile flesh of his face, but his jaws were clamped shut as the Dementor began to inhale, beginning what was the end for all of the others who were subjected to it But something was different. It was not a soul that was being pulled away, but a face. Skin, hair, bone, blood. It all went down the endless gullet of the Dementor, stripped away from a man who was no longer a man, but a boy. And when it was done, Draco Malfoy stood unscathed, in his true form. Blood flecked his face, but it was fallen blood from another form.  
  
Then the Dementor collapsed, and didn't rise again.  
  
Draco turned towards the Dark Lord, who had not moved from his spot, but was simply watching. If nothing else, he actually seemed interested now. But Draco did not want the Dark Lord interested, he wanted him angry. "I think your bodyguards are getting fresh," he snarled, and pointed at the markings around his eyes, "good thing I came prepared."  
  
Without warning he seized hold of one of the Dementors, who hadn't expected the sudden turn of defense. He pulled it close and laid his lips against whatever ungodly face lurked below it. His kiss was fast, but did the job, and when he pulled away the Dementor was already folding to the ground. The others fell back as if from an explosion, but Draco had no more interest in them. He simply looked back at Voldemort. "Do you have anything else for me," he asked in a growl, "or are you ready to do this job yourself?"  
  
"You fool. Your wand has been broken by your own hand. You are worthless." Once again, it seemed like the Dark Lord was going to do it, but instead he called out in his encompassing voice again, so that it rang through the entire building. "TO ME, MY DEATH EATERS! THERE IS A TRAITOR AMONG US! TO ME!" It was quite the spectacle to see, the Dark Lord calling for help, but it was not something Draco was looking forward too.   
  
Draco spun to face the door that led into the hall, expecting a rumbling stampede of Dark Wizards rushing to cut him down, and realized that this hadn't been the greatest idea after all- of course, he'd always thought that, but at least this would be proof. But there was nothing. If anything, the backward buzz of life behind the doors died down. The building was silent. And realization dawned on both of them at the same time, but Draco said it anyway. "You trained them too well," he said with dawning glee, "you trained them to let you handle the traitors! And this... they think this is a test."  
  
"Shut up!" The Dark Lord commanded.  
  
"They think its a test!" Draco repeated, almost laughing now. "And you can't do anything about it!  
  
Voldemort stared at his in a seething hatred that did not even closely match the hatred that lurked behind Draco's own eyes. There was nothing he could say to his men outside of this room. Any persuasion he tried would simply convince them more in their conviction that this was a trial, as would any threat. He knew then, that he would have to give this little maggot the satisfaction of being felled by his own hand. A small defeat, but a defeat nonetheless. So he was going to make this as painful as he possibly could. His wand came up into the air under its own power- the Dark Lord had long since lost the need of simple charms such as Wingardium Leviosa- , into his waiting hand, and he pointed it easily at Draco. "Cruciate!"  
  
But Draco had one more wand in his arsenal, one final wand. Harrys wand. He raised it up like a shield, and the bellowing waves of the torturous spell struck across it, and instead of seeing Draco writhing in pain on the floor, a far too familiar scene began to play in front of Voldemort's eyes. It was like a rocket launched backward from Draco's wand, a reflection from the spell, and struck against Voldemorts, locking the two together. In the center of that rocket stream was a glowing bead, and Voldemort remembered seeing that bead inching towards his own wand, the imminent force that snatched Harry Potter from his grasp. Golden strands lanced out from the two wands, connecting with each other, forming an orb that was laced with the faintest tones of Phoenix Song. His wand began to shake viciously in his hands but he kept an iron grip on it, watching Draco with the eyes of a predator. And Draco was looking right back at him.  
  
They're was a power struggle over the bead of light. Voldemort pushed against it, and Draco pushed back. For a moment it maintained itself in the middle, but then began to push towards the Dark Lord, and then back again. All the while the golden strands were growing brighter, and wider in their arcs. From the corner of his eye Draco saw one of the threads lace through a Dementor, cutting through it like a hot knife through butter. Two ends of robes fluttered separately to the ground, and the severed Dementor collapsed.   
  
And then Draco's attention was back. He reached into himself, into a special pouch he had created. Not of his own power, but of someone elses. He could literally taste it vibrating against his rip cage, and it taste primal, it tasted like a wild animal, a dog, a wolf. "Avada," he said, taking a deep breath, focusing all of that pouch into his next words, watching as the golden bead drew so close to his wand it was almost touching "Kedavra."  
  
The golden bead went suddenly bright, brilliantly green, and there was no more semblance of struggle. It launched with the force of a cannon *away* from Draco, in the only other direction it could go. Right towards Lord Voldemort. There was a sudden moment as Voldemort realized was about to happen and went to let go of his wand, to break the connection, but it was too late. Both wands, overwhelmed with stress and energy, exploded in red heat that was instantly overwhelmed with green light so bright it almost seemed white to the two men inside the room. The Dementors fell back like broken kindling, collapsing against the cold stones of the floor, literally melting inside their robes as the green light encompassed the entire room, blinding everyone inside, and then died out as quickly as quickly as it had came.  
  
Voldemort did not melt, but he was shrinking nonetheless. Pasty green flesh faded away, fingers shortened, eyes widened and faded to a muddy brown. A sloping skull faded into brown hair, and slitted nostrils broke into a small, crooked nose. And it was not Voldemort, but Tom Riddle, who collapsed to the stones, finally put to rest..   
  
And somewhere a voice was screaming, chanting, now unheard to the one man it had been meant for.  
  
"No... no... god, Draco, please no..."  
  
Because Draco was not listening anymore. Draco had felt the hands on his shoulders, felt the life saving embrace behind him.  
  
"Please, Draco..."  
  
And he'd pulled away from it.  
  
"No." 


End file.
